There Was One in the Bed
by Evergreene
Summary: Two brothers, one bed and a war for the ages.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: A wise man one said that I don't own Supernatural. Sadly, he was right.**

**A/N: I just felt the need to write a bit of brotherly silliness after watching the first episodes of the new season. By the way, thank you so much from everyone down here in Australia to those of you who make it possible for us to watch the new episodes online. Otherwise we'd have to wait until at least January to see the new season, and, quite frankly, I for one would not have had the patience, nor the self-control, to refrain from reading spoilers. Hope you enjoy this little snippet!**

**A/N/N: Takes place during Season One**

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**There was One in the Bed**

"Sam."

Steadfastly ignoring his older brother, Sam Winchester concentrated on the flickering screen of the laptop sitting on the bed before him.

"Saaaaammy."

Clicking on a flashing link with perhaps more force than was necessary as Dean's voice adopted a singsong tone, Sam frowned. Apparently, a chupacabra had been haunting an abandoned farmhouse in Maine for the past decade. Moving the pointer to the top of the screen, he added the site to his favorites list, seconds before a pillow hit him the back of the head.

"OW!" Whipping his head round, he glared at Dean, who was lying on the foldout bed of their most recent motel room. "What the hell was that for?"

His brother was staring up at him, a perplexed expression on his face.

"Dude. What _is_ that?"

"What is what?" Sam replied grumpily, turning his attention back to the laptop. Swiping the back of his fingers over his sweaty forehead, Sam wondered how on earth it could possible be so hot when it wasn't even July yet. Of course, he considered, having no air conditioning probably did not help. With a grimace, he wiped his now damp hand on his t-shirt where it lay on the bed next to him, having been discarded minutes earlier, and made a mental note to persuade Dean to fork out the extra cash, or a fake credit card, to get a room with air conditioning which actually worked next time.

Dean was still staring at him. "That," he repeated, pointing at Sam. "On your back."

"Where?" Still reading the article on the screen before him, Sam glanced over his bare shoulder in a half-hearted attempt to see what Dean was talking about.

Sitting up, Dean pointed harder. "Right _there_."

Sam let out a slow breath. Ever since he had won the toss for the only proper bed in the room, leaving Dean on the foldout, his older brother had been devoting all his attention to annoying the hell out of him. When coupled with the fact that the unseasonable warmth had not gentled in the slightest as darkness had fallen, and that he had nearly been strangled earlier that afternoon by an unruly poltergeist plaguing a furniture store, everything was adding up to form one very annoying day. Closing the laptop, Sam twisted round a little further, trying to see his own back. "What is it?"

Dean was squinting at him. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and, leaning back onto his elbows, his left eyebrow started to climb, ever so slowly. "Seriously, Sammy, what did you do to yourself when you were at college?"

"What do you mean?" Reaching a long arm round to his back, Sam began to prod and poke the area around his spine, trying to feel, if not see, what Dean was getting at. "I didn't do anything."

"You sure as hell didn't have _that_ on you before you left…"

"Have what?"

"…I would've noticed, 'cos it's damn hard to miss."

"Dean, what are you talking about?" Sam asked, yet his question went unanswered as Dean put his head back down on the hard pillow beneath him.

"I've gotta say," he murmured, almost to himself, as he stared up at the ceiling. "I never would've thought you'd be one of those people."

"What people?"

The older hunter ignored him, closing his eyes. "I thought you'd just put your head down and study at college, like a good little geek..."

"I did," Sam protested.

"But hey, I guess you never really know a person…"

Sam was getting more than a little irritated. "Dean! Focus. What is it?"

The eldest on of John Winchester cracked open an eye. "You mean you don't know?"

Only just managing to restrain himself from throwing something, preferably a solid something, at his brother, Sam contented himself with simply glaring. "No, I don't know," he gritted out. "Now what the _hell_ are you talking about?"

Dean frowned, his brow creasing in puzzlement. "Dude, how can you not know about _that_?"

Fed up, Sam rolled off his bed and strode into the bathroom. Turning his back to the mirror, he glanced over his shoulder, searching his reflection for whatever it was that Dean was talking about. No matter how hard he looked however, he could see nothing but a broad expanse of smooth skin which bore no marks other than the occasional white line, each of which commemorated the event of a hunt gone wrong. Yet he could see nothing unusual enough to have drawn Dean's notice for such a length of time, especially considering his brother's disturbingly short attention span, at least for matters not related to the hunt…or to women.

"There's nothing there!" Sam called, his voice echoing as it bounced around the small, moulding, bathroom. When there was no answer he moved back into the main room, only to see his brother sprawled out over the only proper mattress with a large pile of pillows beneath him. The foldout had been left empty, devoid off all manner of blankets, pillows and even sheets.

"There's nothing there," he stated for a second time.

Dean grinned, folding his arms behind his head. "Made you look."

Sam stared at the older hunter disbelievingly; slightly incredulous at the effort Dean was prepared to go to in order to annoy him. Yet when his brother just closed his eyes, looking for the entire world like he was asleep, he let out a short huff and moved over towards the main bed. "Get off," he demanded, tugging at one of the soft pillows under Dean's head in an effort to get him to move.

"Nope," the other hunter replied, his eyes still closed.

Sam frowned. "Dean, it's my bed."

"Correction: it _was_ your bed."

Sam could feel his shoulders tightening again. He forced himself to take a slow, deep, breath. "I won it, Dean, fair and square."

"Here's the thing, Sam…" Dean paused, fixing a serious green gaze on the younger hunter. "I don't care."

"Get off!"

"I gotta tell you, Sammy, I really don't see that happening."

Releasing his grasp on the pillow, Sam grabbed a handful of the thin blanket draped over his brother. "You're such a jerk," he muttered, tugging harshly at the light cover.

"Deal with it," Dean replied easily, pulling the blanket closer about his body and away from Sam. "Now go away, I'm trying to sleep."

"It's _my _bed." Vaguely aware that he sounded like a spoiled brat, Sam decided that he did not care.

"What are you, five?"

"Dean! Off!"

"Hey man, I saved your ass back there. You owe me."

Opening his mouth to respond, Sam paused and looked at his big brother who was lying on _his_ bed, clutching _his_ blanket, and was staring at him defiantly. He swallowed. Dean had saved his life that afternoon, emptying a couple of rounds of rocksalt into the rogue spirit that was choking Sam, before performing the exorcism that would banish it from the store for good. And that was quite apart from the hundreds of times that Dean had pushed him out of the way of an oncoming spirit, had killed whatever creature was currently trying to throttle him. Hell, Dean had even taken a knife for him before when Sam had been to busy arguing with his father to pay attention to a floating butcher knife.

Silently, Sam took a step back and away.

Dean pushed himself onto his elbows, still clutching tightly at his blanket. "Where are you going?"

Sam shrugged, dropping down onto the low foldout. "Well, I'm not going to sleep on the floor, so unless you have any better ideas..."

The older hunter blinked. "Dude, I stole your bed."

"Yeah. I can see that."

"And you're not gonna _do_ anything?"

Sam shook his head. "You're right," he said simply.

The older hunter fixed him with a sharp gaze which Sam returned without hesitation. Finally, after long seconds had passed, Dean broke the gaze. "Damn right I'm right," he muttered. "I'm surprised it took a geek like you so long to realise it."

Drawing his longs legs onto the rollout, Sam rolled onto his side so that he faced his brother and watched as Dean punched his large pile of pillows a few times, moulding them to the right shape before settling down under his blanket.

"Hey, Dean-" he began, yet found himself interrupted instantly.

"Shut up, Sammy."

Unable to prevent the smile which tugged at his lips, Sam reached up to flick off the light-switch which sat handily above his head. Darkness immediately swamped the room and he lay back down, wincing as the bare mattress beneath him dug into his neck. "Jerk," he muttered loudly, only to be cut off as a thick pillow hit him in the face. Grinning, Sam pulled it off his head and moved it to the top of the bed. Closing his eyes, he buried his head into the pale softness with a low sigh.

"Night, Dean."

His only reply was a snore.

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**Next chapter: Sam decides that giving up his bed once to Dean is quite enough.**

**(sighs dreamily) I like reviews. Hope you enjoyed this bit of silliness!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, but I am hoping to get a Sam for Christmas.**

**A/N: Once again I got a tad carried away with what was meant to be a simple one-shot, but I hope you enjoy the result!**

**Summary: Sam decides that giving the bed up once is enough. **

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**Room Number 13**

"Come again?"

Sam Winchester grimaced as his older brother glared at the silver-haired man standing in front of them, who reached up to adjust his glasses, only just managing to prevent them from falling entirely off his needle-thin nose.

"I said, sir, I am afraid that we have no doubles, only singles."

Dean took a short step forward, the toe of his right boot thudding solidly against the wooden counter which separated them from the proprietor of the roadside motel.

"You sure about that?"

"Quite sure, Mr.-" The man paused and looked enquiringly over his glasses at Dean, who stared back without saying a word.

Nudging his brother, Sam raised an expectant eyebrow, only to have the dark glare turned on him. With a roll of his eyes, he plastered a polite smile on his face and stepped forward.

"Mr. Smith," he finished smoothly, in answer to the man's hanging question. "The name is Smith."

It was Dean's turn to raise an eyebrow, and the hotelier cleared his throat, reaching up to straighten his wire frames for a second time.

"Yes, well, Mr. Smith," he murmured, his voice irritatingly soft, "as I was saying, I'm afraid that we only have single rooms available tonight."

Folding his arms belligerently on top of the oaken counter, Dean leant forward until his face was no more than a foot away from the man opposite. His foot began to thud rhythmically against the tall wooden boards before him. "What sort of motel doesn't have any doubles?" he demanded.

The hotelier cleared his throat again. "You are lucky, sir, that we have any rooms left." Reaching up to straighten his glasses, he blinked owlishly through the thick lenses at the two brothers. "Perhaps the next time you stay with us you will remember to arrive somewhat earlier."

Dean's foot stopped mid-tap. "Next time?" he began sceptically, leaning even further forward.

Hurriedly, Sam elbowed Dean to the side. "Is there a foldout bed which we might use?" he interrupted. "Or some extra blankets?" He ducked his head briefly. "It's just that my brother here and I have travelled a long way the past couple of days..." Letting his statement linger, Sam smiled his best smile, only just managing to hold it as the innkeeper shook his head, the bones in his neck cricking painfully in the otherwise silent lobby, lit only by the sickly yellow glow of the overhead lamp.

"I am afraid not," the man began, with a little cough. "You see, we-"

Reaching out his arm, Dean gave Sam a decisive shove as he himself moved back to stand directly opposite the hotelier, fixing him with a hard gaze. "You mean there's no double rooms, no foldouts and no extra blankets." At the man's nod, Dean pushed himself back from the counter with both hands, quirking a sardonic smile before dropping all hint of humour from his face. "You know, this is a quality establishment you've got going here."

Having only narrowly managed to have kept himself from sprawling to the floor, Sam shifted inconspicuously, reaching out his leg and delivering a sharp kick to the other hunter's left ankle. Ignoring the loud grunt which echoed from his ever-so-stealthy brother, he reached into his wallet, and, fishing out one of the various credit cards Dean had bestowed upon him some months ago, handed it to the man, still smiling. "We'll take the room just for the night, please."

Accepting the card and placing it on the desk before him, the man peered at it closely, pushing his glasses up once more. He cleared his throat. Again. "Excuse me, Mr. Smith," he began, "but this card seems to be under a different name than that which you gave me…"

Quickly realising where the man's thoughts were taking him, down a path containing two potentially axe-murdering criminals who had stolen someone's wallet, Sam was quick to interject. "We're step-brothers. His name's Smith, mine's-" His mind blanked, and, flustered, he leant forward slightly, trying to read the upside-down card where it lay on the wooden desk. "Ulrich," he finished. "Sam Ulrich." His teeth began to ache with the effort of maintaining what he hoped was an earnest and trustworthy smile.

"I see." Thankfully without further comment, the hotelier put through the transaction, and, sifting through a shallow drawer to his left, pulled out a small metal key which glinted dully in the diffused light. From it dangled a dilapidated key ring with the number '13' printed on it in black pen.

Sam accepted it with thanks, and, pulling a still-glaring Dean with him, made his way out the door and across the dark parking lot where the Impala sat waiting before a long brick building marked at regular intervals by doors. Just a few steps out from the warmth of the office, however, he found himself being pushed sideways once more, this time into a row of wet bushes. Only just managing to catch himself, Sam glared at his brother and shoved back. "Can you not?" he asked, exasperatedly. "I nearly twisted my ankle in there."

"Yeah, well, you kicked mine, so let's call it even," Dean retorted, catching his balance with ease and stalking over to the car, whose sides gleamed silver in the dusting rain. "And why the hell did you kick me, anyway?"

Waiting whilst Dean pulled the car keys out of his jacket pocket, Sam glanced over at the other hunter. "Dean, you looked like you were going to punch that guy in there."

"And?"

"And I for one would like to sleep in a bed tonight," Sam shot back, swinging open the side door as soon as Dean had twisted the key in the lock.

"Oh, come on, Sammy, you heard him." Dean snorted. "_Only single rooms tonight, sir_," he scoffed. "You know as well as I do that he probably just couldn't be bothered to make up another couple of beds."

"Or maybe he'd run out of double rooms, like he said," Sam returned, halfway in the Impala in an attempt to find his laptop, buried somewhere under the many food wrappers his brother had chucked over his head the past two days.

"Whatever," Dean muttered as he unlocked the trunk and wrenched it open irritably. "And while we're on the subject of that idiot, what was with that name you gave him?"

Emerging triumphant from the backseat, clasping the laptop to his chest, Sam looked up. "What do you mean?"

"Come on, Sam, _Smith_?" Dean leant back against the open trunk, paying no heed to the silver streams of water edging their way down the sleek black side. "Dude, I know you had a few years off from hunting, but seriously, _anyone_ could have come up with a better name than that."

Sam frowned as he moved round to the trunk to join his brother. "Look, Dean, I really didn't want to get into an argument with the hotel manager about whether or not we robbed someone. What we're doing is illegal enough without causing any more trouble."

"Well maybe if he gave us the sort of room we asked for then there wouldn't be any need for trouble."

"Dean-"

Yet Dean was off on another tangent. "Maybe he was possessed," he mused, tilting his head back towards the night sky and watching the many thousands of raindrops in their plunge towards earth.

"What?" Seeing that Dean had made no move to get the bags, Sam shoved his laptop under his arm and reached in to grab the heavy duffels, levering them one after the other over his shoulder as the light drizzle transformed into a downpour.

Dean nodded to himself, completely ignoring the miniature monsoon going on around him. "I bet you fifty bucks that guy was a malevolent spirit or something."

Ducking his head against the rain, Sam raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Cursed to give people bad rooms? Yeah, Dean, I'm sure." Seeing Dean open his mouth, ready to argue, Sam shook his head. "Look, man, can we just go inside? I'm getting soaked out here."

"Diddums," Dean retorted. "Is little Sammy getting wet?"

"Yeah, Sammy is," the younger hunter returned, shifting slightly as he felt a small trickle of water creep its way into his left shoe, turning quickly into a stream. "So can we just go already?"

Slamming the trunk shut, Dean shrugged. "Fine. But when that guy goes all Casper on our asses tonight, don't expect me to help you fight him off."

"Whatever." Hefting the bags further onto his shoulder, Sam started for the room with rapid strides.

"Dude, wait up!"

At the shout which echoed from behind him, Sam about-faced, but continued walking backwards, determined to get out of the rain. "Yeah?"

Dean jogged up to join him, heavy boots squelching on the wet asphalt. "You gonna be alright in the car?"

"What?"

"You're sleeping in the car. There's no way I'm sharing a bed with you."

"I'm not sleeping in the car."

"Sure you are."

"It's your car, you sleep in it."

Dean quickened his stride so that he reached the tiny covered porch first. "Not gonna happen, Sammy."

Left standing in the rain, his clothes growing ever darker, Sam frowned. "You've slept in there before."

"So've you."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm not sleeping in the damn car, Dean. One of us can sleep on the floor or something. Now give me the room key."

Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out the strip of convoluted metal before launching it in the vague direction of his little brother.

Just managing to tuck his laptop under the arm bearing the bags in time, Sam grabbed the key out of the air way to his right. "Real mature, Dean," he muttered as he pushed his way onto the porch and unlocked the door, nudging it open with his shoulder.

The older hunter backed against the doorframe to let the younger hunter enter. "Ladies first," he said just as Sam passed him.

"Bite me," Sam responded automatically as he stepped inside Room Number 13 and flicked on the overhead light.

Dean came to stand next to him, just inside the doorway. Silence reigned between the two brothers until the elder hunter finally spoke.

"Dude. This is so not a room. It's a cupboard." Taking a step forward and nearly hitting the side of the single bed framed narrowly by four grimy walls, Dean tilted his head to the side. "Or maybe a box."

Ignoring him, Sam dumped the gear on top of the low-slung mattress that was barely big enough for one person, let alone two. Not a single other piece of furniture could be seen, and indeed, would not have fitted. The only thing that broke the monotony was a second door located on the opposite side of the room to which they had entered.

Skirting round the mattress, pressed close to the peeling olive paint which layered three of the four walls, Sam attempted to pull the second door open, yet found it brought to an abrupt halt as it hit the metal frame of the lone mattress. Peering round, he managed to make out a dingy tiled bathroom containing a tiny shower, a toilet, and a stained metal sink shoved into the corner. Shoving the door closed again with a veiled sigh, he edged around the bed for a second time, finally dropping down on its end. Deciding that his brother may have been right about the whole 'quality-establishment' thing, he nevertheless determined that he would never admit such a thing as long as he lived. Instead, he pulled off his sopping brown jacket and let it fall onto Dean's duffel. "It's got a bed, doesn't it?" he reasoned, forcing an indecent amount of amiability into his voice. "What more do you want?"

"Two beds."

Ignoring Dean, Sam bent down and pulled off his left shoe. Holding it up in front of him, he peered inside, watching dispiritedly as a little trail of water ran from toe to heel. Chucking it onto the narrow strip of threadbare carpet visible around the bed, he started on the other foot. "So, who gets the mattress?"

"Me," Dean replied immediately. Kicking the door shut behind him with enough force that it rattled on its hinges, he began to pull off his own boots, balanced precariously on one foot as he tugged at the other.

Thin lines creased Sam's forehead. "Why?"

Dean dropped his second boot on the floor, grimacing at the subsequent squelch. "'Cos I say so, that's why."

Bouncing slightly as he tested out the mattress, which began to sag dubiously, Sam shook his head. "That's not a reason." He tensed as a long, loud creak groaned from the springs below.

"Sure it is."

Sam decided it was time to pull out the big guns. "You got the bed last time…" he wheedled, looking pleadingly up at his big brother.

"So I should get it this time too," finished Dean triumphantly, taking the final short step between him and the mattress.

Sam, however, stood up to bar his way, his expression changing instantly from wide-eyed and beseeching to a set frown. "That makes no sense, Dean."

"Sure it does."

"No way. As you got it last time it should be my turn tonight."

Dean shook his head. "Nu-unh. See, I'm used to having a good bed. I can't sleep on the floor, it would be…demeaning for me."

"Demeaning…" Sam echoed, disbelievingly.

"Yeah. Demeaning."

Sam shook his head. "That is such a load of crap."

"Your point being?"

"My _point_ is that there is no way I'm letting you get the bed this time."

"Hey, man, I saved your life."

"Yeah, like a week ago."

"I still saved it, didn't I? So I should get the bed!"

Sam shook his head.

Dean glared.

Sam glared back.

The next second, their gazes dropped simultaneously to the mattress sitting innocently in the middle of the room, each hunter feeling its soft, sagging call. Another instant passed and two sets of eyes, one green, one hazel, jolted back to focus on each other, each brother pretending he hadn't noticed where his sibling had been looking. Then, within an instant of one another, the two men surged forward, launching themselves in the general direction of the solitary bed.

With the help of his long legs, Sam landed slightly underneath Dean. Grunting as his brother's significant weight thudded into his back, he grabbed the edges of the mattress, curling his fingers underneath for a better grip. Dean, however, reached down and uncurled the digits one by one with skill born of many years of being a big brother. Pulling the younger hunter's right arm behind his back, he pushed up, twisting the limb painfully.

"Get off me," Sam gasped, barely able to breath with the combination of his brother's weight and the hold Dean had upon him.

"Get off of the bed and maybe I'll think about it."

Sam shook his head as best he could with his face pressed against the mattress, which smelt slightly of odd socks.

Dean pushed Sam's arm that little bit higher. "Off."

"In…your…dreams!" Sam forced out. "Now…get off me!"

"Not until you get the hell off my bed!"

"'S'not yours! S'mine!"

Without warning, Dean rolled off the bed, landing with a soft thump on the floor next to the closed bathroom door. Sam waited, sure that the battle wasn't yet over. Sure enough, he felt a strong hand close about his ankle and pull. Hard.

Sam gritted his teeth and held on, gripping as tightly as he could. Muscles primed by years of hunting the things that went bump in the night were stretched to their limit, veins pressing, yet still Sam clung to the bed, knowing as well as Dean that it was no longer about who slept where. This was a matter of principle.

A minute passed, then two, and still the Winchester brothers remained locked in their silent battle. Finally, Sam felt a slight give in the pressure on his leg as one of Dean's socked feet slipped on the thin carpet. Triumphant, he wrenched his leg towards his body, and allowed himself a single moment to readjust his grip.

It proved to be a moment too long. Powerful fingers tightened about his calf, and almost before Sam knew what had happened, he found himself lying on the floor as the dark shadow which was Dean launched itself over his head, claiming the vacated bed in triumph.

Drawing his legs beneath him so he sat Indian-style on the narrow strip of shabby carpet between the bed and the hidden bathroom, Sam rubbed his swiftly reddening elbow with a wince. "You gave me carpet burn," he grumbled accusingly, as Dean lay back spreadeagled over the mattress.

Ignoring the muttered complaint, Dean rolled onto his side and stared down at the younger hunter. "Are you sure you wanna be sitting there, Sammy?" he asked. "I mean, I wouldn't even want my boots to touch what you're sitting on."

Glancing down at the threadbare, moulding carpet, stained with what he didn't know, Sam suddenly found himself glad for his ignorance. An expression of disgust crossed his face, and, quickly pulling his legs under him, he pushed himself to his feet. Repugnance, however, quickly changed to a sly grin as he eyed his brother, noting the sodden shirt and waterlogged jeans. Shifting the couple of feet to where his duffel sat on the corner of the mattress, he pulled it open and began digging. "You know, Dean," he commented offhandedly, as he hauled out a slightly damp towel and the light track-pants and t-shirt he usually slept in, which, thankfully, were still dry, "you're gonna have to get up and change sometime. Unless, of course, you like sleeping in wet jeans."

Dean folded his arms behind his head. "I don't have a problem with it."

"You could get a cold."

Dean smirked. "The way I figure it, Sammy, is that you're the one who'll have to take care of me until I get better, and you know as well as I do that I'm a pain in the ass when I'm sick."

Sam scowled. "Fine. I'll just sleep on the floor then."

"Suits me."

"You know that I'll probably wake up with lycanthropy or something."

Dean closed his eyes and spoke to the ceiling. "I was thinking more that flesh-eating bacteria thing." He paused, then grinned. "That would be cool."

"Come on, man, why can't we share?"

"Don't wanna."

"So you'd rather I get necrotizing fasciitis?"

"Huh?"

"That flesh-eating bacteria thing."

"Geek."

"Please?"

Opening his eyes, Dean lifted his head. "If I share, will you stop being such a pain in the ass?"

Sam nodded, annoyance changing immediately to amenability. "Of course."

"Fine. We'll share. But if you kick me even once, I'm putting you outside." In one swift movement, Dean grabbed his duffle and, rolling off the bed, bolted the two steps to the bathroom door. Throwing open the door, he hurled himself inside and slammed it shut behind him.

Sam stared at the closed door which now hid the shower he had fully been intending to use. He blinked, then, glowering, he dumped his stuff back on the bed. "I'm gonna kill him," he muttered, throwing himself onto the mattress with a curse. The mattress only groaned in reply.

TBC

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**Soooo…what did you think? I've got the next chapter nearly ready for posting, so that one should be up pretty soon. Thanks for reading and happy holidays!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I do not own the pretty boys or their show.**

**A/N: Thank you everyone for the reviews, I loved reading them all and have replied where I could. This is the second part of 'Room Number 13,' continuing on from Chapter 2. Enjoy!**

**Room Number 13-Part Two**

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Nearly an hour later, the Winchester brothers found themselves lying on opposite sides of the narrow mattress, as far apart as they could get, which, admittedly, wasn't far at all.

Despite being crowded against Dean, shoulders pressing, Sam couldn't help the small smile which came to his face. It had been a long time since the two of them had shared a bed, and he couldn't help but be reminded of nights as a kid sneaking into Dean's bed, full of faith that big brother could protect him from everything bad in the world.

Sam turned his head towards his brother as he felt Dean roll over and dig around in his bag, which lay on the narrow strip of floor next to him. His smile faded quickly, however, as he caught the dim gleam of a sharp-bladed knife in the near darkness.

"Dean, there's no way I'm sleeping with a knife in the bed."

"Well, there's no way I'm not."

Sam shook his head, feeling the old track-pants he had rolled up into a pillow dig into his head. "Dude, no."

"When that evil spirit guy from the lobby attacks us, you'll be glad of it," Dean retorted, placing it under the one and only pillow in the room, which he had seized when Sam had finally managed a short, cold shower with the last of the water.

"For the last damn time, Dean, he's not evil and he's not gonna attack us. And anyway," Sam added, matter-of-factly, "knives don't work against spirits."

"This baby's pure silver. It'll do some damage, whatever the hell he is."

"He's a human!"

"So it'll work just fine then."

The bed shifted again as Dean snaked his hand around the knife handle. Sam grumbled to himself, but settled down, stretching out his legs and wishing, as always, that motel beds were longer. He kicked at the blankets, trying to loosen them enough that he could slip his feet out.

Dean clouted him on the collarbone.

"OW!"

"Quiet, Sammy, you'll wake the neighbours."

"What was that for?" Sam demanded furiously, not bothering to lower his voice as he reached up to rub his now aching shoulder.

"You're letting cold air in."

Sam continued to push at the blankets with his feet. "I don't fit on this stupid bed," he grumbled.

"Then go sleep in the car and we'll all be happy."

"I'm not sleeping in the car."

"Then shut up about not fitting. It's your own fault, anyway."

"How is it my fault?"

"Well if you weren't built like the Jolly Green Giant, you might actually fit on here, like everybody else."

Sam stilled. "So I'm not normal, is that what you're saying?"

"Course you're not normal," Dean retorted, without hesitation. "_No one _is as tall as you are." He paused. "Unless they're part of a circus or something."

Sam didn't reply.

"You know, the circus, the place where the clowns live."

"Shut up."

"Make me, Clown Boy."

"What does that even mean?" Sam demanded, yet only a soft snore answered him. He rolled his eyes. "I know you're awake, Dean."

Dean didn't respond.

"Dude, no one can fall asleep that fast."

A grunt sounded from the other side of the bed, and Sam twisted his head to the right.

"Dean! We were in the middle of a conversation!"

A loud snort bounced through the room, and Sam sighed.

"And I'm meant to be the freak," he muttered, rolling onto his side, away from his brother, still kicking at the blankets, but more quietly this time. He closed his eyes, and had started to drift off when another snore echoed through the tiny motel room.

"Shut it, man."

Another, louder, snore was the only answer.

"Dean!"

His brother only started to snore with each breath he took in, as well as out.

His frustration growing, yet unwilling to move even the slightest bit more than he had to, Sam awkwardly stretched his arm out behind his back and poked the sleeping figure next to him, possibly more violently than was necessary.

Dean woke with an abrupt jerk, cursing loudly.

"What the hell?" Blinking furious to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark, Dean looked over at Sam, eyes narrowed in the near darkness. "What was that for?"

"You were snoring," Sam stated.

"Well if you'd slept in the car like I suggested, you wouldn't be able to hear me, would you?"

"I'm not sleeping in the freaking car!"

"Why the hell not?"

"Because!"

"For a guy who was doing pre-law, you suck at arguing, Sammy."

"Shut up."

"You shut up."

"I swear, Dean, you're like a little kid sometimes."

"I know you are, but what am I?"

"A jerk."

"Takes one to know one."

"I hate you."

"Yeah, well, I hate you more."

"Do not."

"Now who's immature?"

"Shut up."

"Says you."

"Dean!"

"Yes, Sammy?"

"Shut…the…hell…up."

"Make me, Clown Boy."

Wishing that he had a pillow to pull over his head, or possibly to smother his brother with, Sam instead just closed his eyes, taking deep, calming breaths.

"Sam?"

The younger hunter told himself not to react, that it would only egg Dean on.

"Sammy?"

He reminded himself that fratricide was a crime.

"Saaaammmyyy…"

And there was the whole cleaning up the evidence thing, which he was certain would be a pain in the ass.

"Clown Boy?"

Of course, Sam thought, _anybody_ in any jury would understand that murdering Dean was a completely justifiable action five seconds after meeting the older Winchester. There was the small matter of Dean not being alive to meet them, but really, that was only a bonus. To his credit, however, he summoned all his self-control and gritted his teeth, determined not to give Dean the satisfaction of knowing he was being annoying.

After several long minutes, Dean fell silent, obviously bored of trying to irritate someone who refused to respond. Sam felt his brother shift about in the bed next to him, delivering a couple of kicks to the younger hunter's shins which Sam was sure were purposeful.

Slowly, Dean's breathing evened out as he fell into sleep, one from which Sam knew he would wake instantly at the slightest hint of a threat. Relishing in the silence, he let his own breathing match Dean's, let the whispered rhythm soothe him along with the darkness. Soon, the soft, slow inhalations of both brothers rose and fell in complete synchronicity as they slept.

It was the first night in many that Sam Winchester did not wake up in a cold sweat from nightmares that he alone could do nothing about.

-----------------

"Yo, Sam! You ready?"

"Give me a minute, would you?"

"Move your ass!" was the only response, and Sam grinned to himself as he shoved the last pair of socks into his duffel, before straightening and heaving the bag onto his shoulder. Swift strides took him to the doorway, and, digging through his pockets, he pulled out the small metal key the hotelier had given them the night before. Edging out onto the small patio drenched in bright sunshine, he hooked his foot around the door to pull it shut, and locked it. Dropping the key back into the front pocket of his jacket, he moved towards the Impala. Dean was leaning up against the car, unconsciously mirroring his position of the previous night, the trunk hanging open as he waited for Sam to deposit his stuff inside.

A smile still on his face, Sam let his bag drop with a thud into the trunk, then stepped lightly back as Dean slammed it shut.

"You're in a good mood," the older hunter commented, swinging the car keys round on his finger.

Sam just ducked his head, lips quirking. The past night's sleep had been the best he'd had in longer than he could remember. Whistling happily under his breath, he headed up the narrow path lined with low bushes to the motel lobby.

A different man was sitting behind the desk this time, swinging back on a rackety chair, bearded, and clothed in a plaid shirt stained with old coffee. He glanced up at Sam as he entered.

"Lookin' for a room?" he asked.

Sam shook his head. "No, actually, my brother and I stayed here overnight. I just came to return the-"

Yet the man, frowning, interrupted Sam. "How'd ya get in? The rooms are all locked when no one's stayin' in 'em."

Sam looked at him, puzzled. "The old man who was here last night, he gave us the keys."

"What man?"

"The creepy one," Dean interjected, having come inside after Sam. "With the glasses."

"There ain't anyone like that workin' here."

The brothers exchanged a glance, then Dean stepped forward.

"Look, mister-"

"Name's Fred."

"Fred. We got the keys from the guy yesterday. Sam, you got 'em, right?"

"Yeah." Reaching into his jacket pocket, Sam fumbled for the key he had put there only minutes earlier. Finding his pocket empty, he tried the other one, then his jeans, back and front. Finally, he glanced over at Dean and shrugged. "I didn't give them to you, did I?"

"Don't think so," Dean answered, but he checked his pockets anyway. Coming up empty, he looked over at the man on the opposite side of the counter. "We probably just left them in our room or something. Sammy here'll go check right now."

"You check," Sam retorted, yet his attention was brought abruptly back to the third person in the room, who had swung forward on his chair, letting the wooden legs land with a slam on the hard floor.

"What was the room number?"

"Number 13," the brothers replied simultaneously.

Fred shook his head. "There ain't no Number 13 in this place."

"Yeah, there is," Dean retorted. "'Cos we stayed there last night. Small room, looks like a box. Not much leg room."

The man pushed his chair back and stood to his feet behind the desk. "You boys are crazy. I've owned this here motel for near on twenty years, and my Papa owned it before me, and I know as well as anybody that we got twelve rooms here, 'n not a brick more."

"And I know as well as anybody that we spent last night in room Number 13," Dean returned, his jaw tightening.

"What you two boys get up to at night is your own business," the man replied, eying them suspiciously, "but I'll not have you making…wild accusations about my Papa's motel which he built with his own two hands!"

Narrowing his eyes at the familiar suggestion, Dean stepped forward, placing his hands on the counter firmly and leaning into them menacingly. "For the last damn time, mister, Sam here is my _brother_. My frater. Frere. Fratello. Hermano. Nothing more, nothing else."

"I don't care what he is to 'ya," the man retorted. "All I care about is not havin' no psychos in my motel!"

Sam, who had taken a pacifying step back as his brother took one forward, noticed that one of the hotelier's hands had crept under the desk, reaching, most likely, for a firearm of some sort.

Fred was still blustering at Dean, his voice becoming louder, his accent more pronounced. "So if you two aren't lookin' for a room, then you're gonna git your asses outta my Papa's motel before I call the sheriff!"

"But-" Sam felt it necessary to interject, in an attempt to placate the man.

"Out!"

"Look, Fred-"

"Get out!"

Raising his hands, Sam backed off, pulling an aggravated Dean by the sleeve of his jacket. "Okay. Okay, we'll go. We don't want any trouble."

"Says you," Dean muttered under his breath, but he let himself be tugged out of the lobby. When they were outside and standing side by side next to the Impala, he turned to Sam. "What the hell was that all about?"

Sam shook his head confusedly. "No clue. Let's just get out of here before that guy starts shooting at us." When Dean did not respond, he nudged his brother. "Come on."

Yet Dean had turned around, and was looking in the direction of the room they had stayed in. He frowned. "Hold on a sec-"

"What?" Sam asked as he headed round to the Impala's passenger door.

"Something's missing," the older hunter murmured, his brow creased as he stared at the long brick building standing on the other side of the parking lot where the rooms were located.

"What are you talking about?"

Dean did not answer, and instead started on a path towards the rooms.

"Dean!" Quickly checking to make sure that Fred hadn't followed them outside brandishing a rifle, Sam hurried quickly over to his brother. "Dude, come on, we gotta get out of here."

Yet the older hunter was standing stock-still, sharp hazel eyes scanning the low building. "It stops at Number 12."

"What?"

"The rooms. Look, man."

After throwing another apprehensive glance back at the lobby, Sam looked, his eyes travelling along the various doors, identical except for the number posted on them in large bronze figures. _Nine…ten…eleven…twelve…_

He stopped. "What the hell?" he murmured. He glanced over at Dean, and together they strode towards the very last room in the block until they stood on the small sheltered porch. They stared at the large number '12' before them.

"Dean?" Sam asked hesitantly.

Yet Dean had jumped off the small porch, and was walking around to the corner of the long building, gazing beyond it as though in hopes of seeing another solid, albeit small, room adjoining Number 12. Finally, he walked back to Sam, raising one hand to run it over his dark blonde hair.

"You're sure it was-"

"Yeah," Sam answered, without waiting for his brother to finish. "I had the key in my pocket this morning. I locked the door, I'm sure of it. Number 13."

"Huh."

When the older Winchester did not say anything more, Sam looked at him, eyes wide. "Dean, man, where the hell did we sleep last night? That guy in there was right, there's no Number 13 here, doesn't look as though there's ever been."

After a few silent seconds, Dean shrugged and reached his hands into his jacket pocket, pulling out the car keys. "Well, that's one for Unsolved Mysteries," he commented, as he turned and began the short walk back to the car.

Sam hurried to catch up. "That's it? That's all you're gonna say?"

"Yep."

"We don't know where we slept last night, Dean!"

Dean raised his eyebrows as he came to a stop next to the Impala. "If that's the first time that's happened to you, then you need to get out more, Sammy."

"I'm serious, Dean."

"So am I." Pulling the door open, Dean lowered himself into the car and busied himself in rolling down the window.

Ducking slightly so he could see into the Impala, Sam gazed at his brother. "Shouldn't we investigate this or something? I mean, our motel room disappeared!"

Dean shrugged. "You can go look for it all you want, Sammy, but I'm not sure if Fred over there would appreciate it too much."

Following his brother's nod, Sam saw a dark shadow move behind the lobby window.

"And besides," Dean continued, "the way I see it is that no one got hurt, doesn't look as though anyone ever will, so there's no use looking into it."

"But, Dean-"

"Get in the car, Sam."

"No!" Sam shook his head urgently. "We have to find out what's going on, it's our duty."

"Duty?" Dean repeated sceptically. "Dude, nowhere in the Hunter's Handbook does it say anything about investigating disappearing motel rooms."

"There is no 'Hunter's Handbook.'"

"Then it sure as hell can't say anything about it."

"Just give me a minute, will you, Dean?"

Yet Dean simply reached forward and wound up the window again. Sam banged on the clear glass, yet the older hunter just turned the key in the ignition. When the car started to roll forward, Sam hurried round until he stood in front of the slow-moving Chevy.

"Hey!"

The car stopped, the window winding slowly down for a second time. Dean's head appeared out the side.

"Dude, move."

Sam shook his head. "We gotta look into this, man."

"You can look around all you want, but I gotta tell you, hitchhiking's gonna be a bitch out in the middle of nowhere like this."

Sam delivered an angry glare towards the older hunter, yet it seemed to have no effect as the Impala started to shift forward again.

"_Dean_," he tried, one last time, but his brother pulled his head inside the car.

"Sorry, Sammy, but I'm getting out of here before Fred over there starts shooting."

Twisting quickly round, Sam watched the door to the motel lobby swing open, and the bristling, bearded figure that was Fred shove its way out, wielding an antique rifle which glinted sharply in the morning light.

"Dean, we can't-" Sam started, yet was interrupted by the sound of a gunshot ripping through the air. Only a few feet away from him, a sharp puff of dirt shot up from the dusty ground, sending small stones scattering over the parking lot.

"Sam, get in," Dean ordered, revving the engine loudly.

"But-"

Another shot went off and more stones scattered, closer this time.

"Now would be good, Sam!"

Sending one last regretful glance towards the row of rooms, Sam darted round to the passenger side and wrenched open the door.

"We're going already!" he heard Dean shout, as he swung himself into the seat and slammed the door shut.

Without further ado, Dean put his foot down flat, and the tyres screamed as they sought purchase on the dusty gravel before the car finally shot forward, leaving only the echo of the engine in her wake.

"I can't believe you're just ignoring this," Sam grumped, shoving his long legs under the low dashboard and trying to arrange them so it was comfortable.

"I'm not ignoring it, I'm getting out of the way of a maniac with a rifle," Dean retorted as the car spun out of the driveway, taking a sharp corner towards the main road. "And feel free to go back and play target practice for Fred anytime you want."

Slouching down in his seat, Sam cast an irritated glance back at the motel and its owner. "Why would he shoot at us?" he muttered, annoyed. "We were trying to help."

Dean's eyes were fixed on the road ahead. "Tell you what, Sammy, you can do your research thing and if you find anything about disappearing motel rooms claiming unsuspecting victims, we'll head back and exorcise that room, or Fred or whatever."

Sam simply glowered at him. "Doesn't this bother you?" he demanded.

"Nope."

"But you always get pissed when we can't figure something out."

Dean paused. "Yeah. But we don't usually get shot at either."

Sam snorted, and Dean cast him a glance.

"What?"

"What about that time in New York?"

"Misunderstanding."

"Philadelphia, with that gremlin?"

"Dude, we were trying to kill it, of course it was going to shoot at us."

"Missouri."

"That was Dad's fault."

"Yeah, it was." Sam paused, thinking. "Okay, how 'bout Georgia, the year I started highschool?"

"That was your fault."

"What? No, it wasn't."

"Sam, you told the owner of that abattoir that the spirits of the dead cows were haunting the place."

"They were!"

"Yeah, but you don't actually tell people stuff like that."

"Fine. How about Virginia?"

Dean smirked. "That was my fault."

"Yeah? How?"

"There was this girl, you see, and her dad kinda found out about us-"

"I don't wanna know," Sam interrupted, holding up a hand in protest.

"But she could do this thing, Sammy," Dean began, but the younger hunter just reached forward and flicked on the radio, turning the volume up loud enough to drown out his brother's voice.

Taking a hand off the wheel, Dean turned the volume back down as the Impala broke onto the freeway and roared forward, hungrily swallowing up the empty miles beneath her.

"Hey, Sam?" he asked, after a few miles had passed by.

"Yeah?"

"I told you that guy last night was a malevolent spirit cursed to give people bad rooms."

"Shut up."

Dean just grinned and kept driving.

----------------

**A/N/N: As I didn't have your email j, I am actually a Sammygirl at heart, but I love Dean too, and he just refused to lose this round. :P Hope you don't mind!**

**Thanks for reading everyone, and I'd really, really love to hear what you thought!**


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